I murmur at my lot; in the white man’s dwelling The mother there is found; Or he may tell where spring buds first are swelling Above her lowly mound; But thou,--lost mother, every trace of thee In the vast sepulchre of Slavery! Long years have fled, since sad, faint-hearted, I stood on Freedom’s shore, And knew, dear mother, from thee I was parted To meet thee never more; And deemed the tyrant’s chain with thee were better Than stranger hearts and limbs without a fetter. Yet blessings on thy Roman-mother spirit; Could I forget it, then, The parting scene, and struggle not to inherit A freeman’s birth-right once again? O noble words! O holy love which gave Thee strength to utter them, a poor, heart-broken slave! Be near me, mother, be thy spirit near me, Wherever thou may’st be, In hours like this bend near that I may hear thee, And know that thou art free; Summoned at length from bondage, toil and pain, To God’s free world, a world without a chain! WE’RE COMING, WE’RE COMING. AIR--Kinloch of Kinloch. We’re coming, we’re coming, the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea! True sons of brave sires who battled of yore, When England’s proud lion ran wild on our shore! We’re coming, we’re coming, from mountain and glen, With hearts to do battle for freedom again; Oppression is trembling as trembled before The slavery which fled from our fathers of yore. We’re coming, we’re coming, with banners unfurled, Our motto is FREEDOM, our country the world; Our watchword is LIBERTY--tyrants beware! For the liberty army will bring your despair! We’re coming, we’re coming, we’ll come from afar, Our standard we’ll nail to humanity’s car; With shoutings we’ll raise it, in triumph to wave, A trophy of conquest, or shroud for the brave. Then arouse ye, brave hearts, to the rescue come on! The man-stealing army we’ll surely put down; They are crushing their millions, but soon they must yield, For _freemen_ have _risen_ and taken the field. Then arouse ye! arouse ye! the fearless and free, Like the winds of the desert, the waves of the sea; Let the north, west and east to the sea-beaten shore, _Resound_ with a _liberty triumph_ once more. ON TO VICTORY. AIR--Scots wha hae. Children of the glorious dead, Who for freedom fought and bled, With her banner o’er you spread, On, to victory. Not for stern ambition’s prize, Do our hopes and wishes rise; Lo, our leader from the skies, Bids us do or die. Ours is not the tented field-- We no earthly weapons wield, Light and love our sword and shield, Truth our panoply. This is proud oppression’s hour; Storms are round us; shall we cower? While beneath a despot’s power Groans the suffering slave?